


Gay and Innocent and Heartless

by Borusa



Category: Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 16:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borusa/pseuds/Borusa
Summary: A conversation between James Hook and Wendy.Canon divergent for period on Earth, and a thematic musing. Not really fix-it, though there is a gesture in that direction.CN and warning for a slightly graphic section involving a crocodile.





	Gay and Innocent and Heartless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_alchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/gifts).



People think you’ll talk about the pain. “Did it hurt?” they say. Of course it hurt. But it’s not the pain that stays with you. It’s not the sight, either, though that certainly lingers. It’s the sound.

Muskets firing a volley. That’s what it sounded like at first. An array of shattering cracks, and then, after, a long, gruesome, grinding. Tooth on bone, lubricated by the copiously flowing blood. I was on my knees, of course, pulling away, and he too was pulling away, so the flesh and tendons ripped. It’s hard not to take that smile personally, when it’s wrapped around the remains of your hand. The Cheshire Cat memory of that smile, and the sound of the cracking of my wrist bones. That’s comes, when I close my eyes.

And Peter, laughing, of course.

I didn’t set out to be a pirate. It’s not really a modern career choice. Eton, Bristol – not quite bright enough for Oxbridge, I’m afraid, the city. An old-fashioned trajectory, I grant, and a lucky one, but I was happy, or near enough to it to not mind.

That was BP, my dear. Before Pan. I’m not boring you, am I? I don’t get a chance to really _talk_ these days. I have to _scheme_ , you see. It’s not like you’re going anywhere, tied up like that, but I’d hate to be rude. We have a lot in common, you and I. I’d like to think, were the circumstances different, we could be friends. But . . . alas.

Where was I? Oh yes, a happy man in the city. Of course, one enjoyed seeking companionship, and one wasn’t too choosy about … well, anything. Dalliances, mostly. Never met the _one_. So, I was in a pub tucked near a railway arch. The sort that caters for a particular audience. _Le Freak_ banging out so loud you have to yell to order a drink, gentleman with no neck standing by the door with a clipboard.  You know the drill – or perhaps you don’t. Gentlemen seeking gentleman, dear. Used to be my kind of place, at least in odd-numbered months.

Are you comfortable? I mean, as comfortable as is possible given your role as . . . well, bait in a trap. I don’t wish to inconvenience you more than is necessary.

So, I am working my way through the press towards the bar when I see him. Dancing in a space of his own, which when the place is that packed is unusual. He didn’t look like he does here. Older. Still young, yes, but not a child. I watched him. He was so beautiful. Enchanting.

He saw me watching, of course. But I wasn’t the only one. I didn’t . . . _do_ anything. He came up to me when the song finished.

“You dance very well,” I said.

He smiled, and I felt . . . special. Honoured. “Are you a pirate?” His first words to me.

“Alas, no,” I said, humouring him. “An investment banker, I’m afraid.”

“But you’re _really_ a pirate. In a pirate ship. I bet you can’t sleep anywhere but on board. I bet you can’t help but plot and scheme, even though you always fail. I bet you just _delight_ in being evil.”

I can’t remember anything more of that night. I think I stumbled around in a daze. The next time I can recall clearly, I was in my cabin on the _Jolly Roger_. If you’ll excuse the swearing: The _Jolly_ fucking _Roger_. Do you not think I could come up with a better name? Do you not think that anyone with half a speck of imagination could come up with something else? But no. Because he only ever lives in the moment. He is only power and impulse – imagination requires some level of attention to detail. Some level of attention full-stop.

So, here I am. Then. Don’t ask how long ago – it’s not a question with a meaningful answer. Time is the enemy here, for him as much as for me. I had both hands, of course, then. He hadn’t thought of that, yet. At first, I fought against it. Fought against every “Yo”-bloody-“ho”.

It’s so tiring, my dear. Fighting. I swear, it wasn’t five hours before I started waxing my moustache. I hadn’t even _had_ a moustache before, let alone one that needed waxing. I was, and am, as much a prisoner here as you, just my bonds are less visible. I am bound by his conception of me.

I’m not the only one. Did you not think there were some aspects of Never Never Land that don’t quite ring true? Have you _looked_ at … the tribe?

I’m going to tell you a secret, and I know that I can trust you with it.

Peter Pan can only bring people here he finds within two miles or so of Kensington Gardens. That statue of him was put up by someone who escaped, to try to capture him. It was only partially successful, but at least it’s something. He’s bound to it, when he’s in the real world.

I know I can trust you because you’ll forget it, soon enough. You still like Pan, so he’ll be able to push it out of your head. Already, it’s fading, isn’t it? So much fades here.

You’re also not sure if you believe me. Or rather, you do believe me, but you don’t want to. He’ll pour through that crack like water and wash away this whole conversation. It’s so unfair.

Pan. Pan is the cause of all this. I’ll get him, I will, _ARRRRRRR._

. . .

Sorry. Lost myself for a moment. I was telling you about the hand, wasn’t I, back at the start of this conversation. I thought I’d found it, you see. The way out. It’s easy. You just have to stop hating Pan. Or loving him. Any of those things give him power over you. Feeling anything about him at all is enough. That momentary interest in the pub was what got me . . . hooked, you might say.

I did it through boredom. I bored myself to the point that Never Never Land faded around me. I could see London again. I was no longer entirely stuck here.

That’s when he thought of the crocodile. When he rolled up all of my fears about being trapped here, all of my worry about the years wasted prancing around as a bad pirate, and gave them a shape.

He brought it right here, and let it in to my cabin. And he watched, and laughed, as it bit my hand off.

Now, when I look at this hook, at the disfigured stump, every time I see the space where my hand used to be, I hate him passionately, again. No way to escape from it. No way back.

He’ll probably let you go, after you’ve played a few more stupid games. He mostly does. With respect, my dear, you’re not going to hold his interest for long. It’s not the ones he likes that should worry. It’s the ones he likes to torment that are doomed to this hell.

Try to remember this chat, my dear, at least for a bit. It . . . well, it means something to me. You’re a lovely girl, and I’m sure you have a wonderful future ahead of you.

There. That’s the sound of someone landing on the deck. I wonder what _innovative_ scheme he’s come up with this time. It’s bound to work, anyway, no matter how bad it is. Farewell, my dear. My audience awaits, and like the good little puppet I am, I must perform as I am bidden.

 


End file.
